Creators
by ShotgunStudios
Summary: It turns out the famous R.L Stine isn't the only person out there with the ability to bring characters to reality. When young Abagail Warren discovers her own creations have a life of their own, she's thrilled. She finally has some friends. But how will she react when she discovers other characters are out there, having been locked up and abandoned by their maker?
1. Everyday

Shot here, just sharing another tale. Why not, right?

So, I've been experimenting and theorizing about how R.L Stine was able to bring his characters to life in the movie since I saw the original film for the first time.  
I mean, how does one do such a thing? How does a typewriter gain such a magical ability? It's never explained in any other fan fiction (that I've read anyway, and trust me, I've read a lot of em') and we certainly never get an excuse in either film or related books (again, I should know, I've watched the second movie a few days ago, and read the books myself on Christmas.)

So, here I am tackling the issue head-on in my own, crazily original way. As always, I really do hope all you readers out there enjoy the story, since, as always, I put as much effort into it as I can. Have a great day, folks!

* * *

**No** one would expect a 14-year-old in a school dominated by 15, 16, 17 and 18-year-olds, but there was one.

Being academically gifted gave children that '_perk_' sometimes.

Abigail, on the other hand, never thought of it as a good thing. She despised being in that high school most of the time. That wasn't even accounting for how kids _never_ liked school. To her, teenagers around that age range were just stuck-up, arrogant, relentlessly rebellious, and bratty. And she was surrounded by them _constantly_. It ended up making her daydream about her being at home or wonder why she had to be smart enough to skip 8th grade. Noooo, she couldn't have just _pretended_ to be stupid?

Of course, she knew most of that opinion was biased, thanks to how much time she spent glued to the television. It depicted them as such constantly, but if kids that age were always seen that way, it was probably because it was true. The teenagers she saw in this school only helped give evidence to that belief, even going as far as to match certain cliché's.

However, there was _one_ thing she _did _enjoy about that particular school.

Her English teacher, Mr. Stine himself.

Yes, that was correct; the famous children horror author himself taught at her school.

Why shouldn't she enjoy that?- she had loved his books when she was younger. Of course, he rarely noticed her (just like everyone else at that blasted place), but she still took a lot of delight in his class.

Once and a while she'd hear gossip and whisperers about _'his monsters having come to life and attack the town'_ but she always knew it was ridiculous gossip and rumors. She may have only recently started attending there, but she knew how schools worked. She wasn't an idiot. She had only moved to Madison, Delaware a few weeks ago, but she could tell it was nothing but a sleepy, small town, where nothing exciting could ever happen.

Still, she could overhear the talk even now as she sat by herself. Particularly, she listened to people complimenting these three teenagers at the table in front of her. She chewed her green beans as she heard talk of some kid named Champ (of all things) taking down a werewolf with his own silver fillings, a boy known as Zach convincing all of the horrifying fiends to go after a decoy bus as it exploded, and a girl called Hannah... sacrificing herself for the monsters to be sucked back into a book? _What? But she's right there._

_'They must either be really delusional here_ _or making up some kind of tall tale for theatre.'_ she thought to herself, pushing the tray with its empty milk carton and barely noticeable food remains away from her. She pulled out a sketchbook from her backpack, which she always brought to lunch with her as a way to entertain herself when she finished her food (if it could be called that) early. The cover had worn itself to its breaking point a long time ago, leaving her beautiful and colorful sketches showing to the world.

She turned to her most recent page, which had the date of the day before in the top right corner. She pulled out her favorite mechanical pencil and her run-down colored pencil case. It was practically covered in see-through tape to force it together, due to having nothing else to contain the massive supply of colored pencils to rely on. She pulled a few out, using them to color in the black outlines she had drawn on to the blank paper earlier that morning. It allowed her to flee from the bland, boring reality she was stuck in, even if it was always temporary.

There were only a few things she loved to partake in more than drawing. Singing, writing, and roleplaying. What all of those have in common? Stories. The songs she loved to sing along to always told a story. Writing allowed her to create characters, worlds and her own stories to escape into. Roleplaying was so much like acting, but you got to create- no, _live in_ and _be one with _the script you and others were making. She always made her own characters that no one else understood but her, and she loved it more than anything.

But sadly, it all had to end too soon. The teachers soon entered the cafeteria, and started gathering their classes to leave so they can all go to their next period. She felt pity for those poor adults. They probably only had the faintest idea of what lack of respect they were getting themselves into when they went to college and earn the degree. She still had to get up, put her stuff back, and get to class like everyone else though. So that's what she did. At least her last class of the day was Mr. Stine.

* * *

She was, like the day before and the day before that, and all the days before those, one of the first to enter the room and sit down at her desk. There were still a few minutes before class actually began, so she went ahead and got out her notebook, agenda, sketchbook, and pencil. She quickly wrote down the homework that was on the board down and put the agenda back up in her bag. She was one of the most well-behaved kids in the class, and she knew it. She'd always gotten praise from her teachers, even at a young age due to her grades and proper attitude.

She patiently watched and sketched as more students entered the classroom, including the three popular children she overheard being praised at lunch just minutes before, until the bell finally rung the second time as a signal to any children still in the hallways that they were late. She looked around as children started excitedly whispering to themselves, making a ruckus, leading to the teacher to push his glasses up his nose and then pinch it. She simply put the sketchbook to the side, turning it over to a blank page to avoid any oncoming whispers of compliments on her art. Don't get her wrong; she loved the praise. It made her feel like she was doing something right with herself. But she didn't want to get distracted from the lesson, and she _definitely_ didn't want the attention. Even she knew that if you got enough attention in any school, you were doomed. It was a different form of destruction for everyone since everyone's reactions to being observed are unique, but it always happened.

"Now, we're _still_ going to examine the characters from _The Tragedy of Julius Ceaser_, but I thought it would be good to use a bit of an easier practice of character identification for warm-ups. Who here has read, say... _Night of the Living Dummy_?" Stine asked as soon as he managed to get the class settled down, causing quite a few students, including Abigail, to raise their hands. Of course she had read it- heck, she was amazed there were people there who _hadn't_. It was the start of one of his most well-known book sagas, featuring his most well-known and beloved villain.

"Good, good. For those who haven't, it's the tale of Lindy and Kris Powell- two sisters who compete against each other in ventriloquism thanks to Kris's envy of Lindy's talent, who deliberately tricks her for her own enjoyment." he then added, "From that sentence alone, what can you tell about these two's personalities?"

"Well, Lindy seems pretty mean if she tricks her sister for enjoyment." a kid in the back, with his hand raised, soon said after a nod towards him from the man up front.

His eyes softened a little- as if he were looking at some lost, dirty puppy in an alley. He might as well be. After all- that kid was pretty rude in other classes he had, as Abigail knew firsthand. He probably didn't behave like a class clown in front of R.L Stine because he knew that the man never stood for such behavior, and always sent students to the office at the first or, very rarely, the second sign of disrespect. "She means well, she's just mischievous at heart. That, and we all know how sisters treat each other. Lindy's merely... misunderstood."

"Anything else?" the English teacher then asked, looking around the room. He nodded over towards Abigail, noticing she had her hand raised.

"Well, since we're on the topic of Lindy, she _can_ be pretty mean, as shown by how she can be sarcastic and scornful to her sister in the book. However, she enjoys the attention she gets from her ventriloquism and only wants something for herself without Kris copying her," she said, twirling a strand of her long, straight, brown hair around her finger as she spoke with a bit of pride.

A faint smile formed across the author's face. "Right on track, Abigail." he then said, "Now, we've been giving Lindy a lot of attention, but Kris deserves some two. What can people identify about her?"

The class went on like that a bit, with students raising their hands and saying their views on the characters personalities for a bit, until they moved on to doing the same thing with the characters from the Shakespeare play until the bell rung, telling everyone that school was finally over for a total of 3 days (counting the rest of that afternoon and evening.)

Teenagers flocked out of the classroom as a stampede, which was always a bit exaggerated in her eyes. Yes, they were literally a stampede, but she always found the fact children needed to just rush out of the room like it would be the end of the world otherwise was just a bit much to her. Would it really kill them to behave themselves and leave in an _orderly fashion?_

She calmly got up, knelt down, and put her stuff into her backpack in a specific order, so the notebooks with rings for spines don't sit in front of each other and connect, and she could all find it easily. She then zipped up the bag and put it on, stepping out of the room without a word.

She couldn't help but notice that Hannah stayed behind to talk to him. It made sense. After all, even she knew the 16-year-old was his daughter. It was a hard fact to gloss over. But, she didn't really care for it. While the girl was well-behaved, and she could respect that, she never thought it was a big deal to be the daughter of a teacher- or a famous author. She was still a person that Abigail didn't know well, but she could tell that she was a nice, sweet person.

She squeezed and slid her way through the relatively cramped hallways the best she could. But she couldn't help but look over at the Smith Corona typewriter in the glass case on the opposite wall. She couldn't help but feel as if there were something mystical and powerful about it. She almost felt... drawn to it. Yet she still resisted her calling, as she kept moving down the hall with her '_peers_' and continue with the routine she went through every day. For this _was_ every day for her.


	2. Who did it?

**It** hadn't taken Abigail long to make her way out of the school itself and into the bright sun's light. She maneuvered her way out of the last remaining children that were making their way to their cars or buses, while she simply made a quick jog through the parking lot. She'd always found it a bit quicker to go straight through the lot and avoid vehicles backing out instead of going all the way around it.

Naturally, she had to be careful. She had no plan on getting run over by any four-wheeler, but she couldn't go to fast, or else she'd start getting a pain in her chest. While she didn't suffer from asthma or anything similar, she had relatively low stamina to counteract how fast she could run, so she needed to keep a semi-quick yet average pace, even if she wanted to be '_as swift as the wind_'. At least, that's what the coach at her old school used to say when she went into an all-out sprint around the track and left other students in her dust.

She couldn't help but grimace at how bright the sun was being when she reached the sidewalk. Yes, while she preferred sunny days over rainy like everyone else on earth, she actually liked cloudy days the best. At least when the clouds covered that bright ball of gas, she wasn't blinded almost everywhere she looked. Still, it was a good day outside. Birds were resting on tree branches, and a few flowers were managing to thrive. The grass was as green as ever. It was almost hard to believe it was becoming autumn.

She kept a steady pace going down the concrete pathway, not stopping to pay any of the neighbor's houses any form of mind or attention. She'd practically memorized the physical features of all the homes and buildings she had to pass by, so it all felt as if it were a regular routine she could never escape from, even when taking into account how long she's actually been there. She could only compare her life now to that of everyone else in a small town; bland, boring, and outright_ lame_. She had to pass the same places over and over five days of the week, day after day in that small town.

But there was still one place that caught her eye. The Stine household. With its fence and almost haunted-house atmosphere, it stood out from the regular, simple and outright cheerful houses around it. She paused in front of the off-looking place that she knew was meant to be cozy to the owner, but unwelcoming to everyone else.

She knew little about the author and his life, but she'd overhear from other kids how secluded he used to be, and how he never liked anyone. He'd even gone as far as to go under the alias '_Mr. Shivers_' for years until he finally revealed himself. It made sense to her, though. He was a famous author. He was bound to get a lot of attention if he were living in a small town like this. Who'd want to be constantly bombarded with comments, rumors, and attention in a place that was meant to be a sanctuary from all of that? Not her, anyway. Good attention would just lead to bad attention. Bad attention led to being bullied and insulted... she didn't want to go through any of that. She _especially_ didn't want to go through it with children the ages where they got really hostile and cruel about it. She couldn't imagine anyone _would_. She shook off her thoughts and continued walking down the sidewalk until she finally reached her own place of sanctuary.

* * *

It was a house, just like every other house in the surrounding area (besides the Stine residence), and just like every typical house that pops into people's heads when they try to think of a home. It was a simple two-story place, with a few windows here and there, and a simple, light greyish paint job. She reached into her dark teal hoodie pocket and gripped on to her house key, using it to unlock the brown front door before putting it back up.

She turned the knob and opened it, revealing the living room, with the couch on the east wall facing the big-screen television on the opposite side. It had a table in-between with an assortment of things on it. If she went further in front of her, she could enter the dining room and kitchen (which were one room). However, she wasn't hungry right now (she would've had to wait two hours before she could eat dinner anyway), so she simply grabbed a sketchpad from off said table and went up the stairs and into her room, which had its own, smaller, older, box-styled TV on its own table right across her blanket-infested bed.

It had pale cream walls, with a few professional drawings she had made herself covering up a burlap board above her bed. She had two shelves on either side, one holding her vast collection of Nintendo 3ds games and DVDs for her portable DVD player, with both devices on top alongside a lamp and lockable, small wooden box with a few of her valuables. On the other were some books, plush dolls, and art kits she always kept around. It had its own bathroom and walk-in closet (which she only really used to store clothes and holiday decorations) and was relatively large but the same size as the other two bedrooms in the house, so she couldn't complain.

An unused keyboard rested in the corner, with a recently bought guitar leaning against the corner at its side. Her mother had insisted she take piano lessons as a young girl, but as she aged, her father took her out to a few guitar lessons (after some pleading). She became a master at both instruments, but heavily preferred the guitar over the piano.

Why shouldn't she? Her mother had only wanted her to seem more like a _'proper lady_' when she took her to them, just like when her mother took her step-brother to golf instead of basketball to be a '_gentlemen_'. All her mom ever even cared about was her reputation among her friends, and Abigail knew that. And she despised that. She deliberately learned guitar to be more of herself instead of her mother's perfect image of her (that and it was a bit of a rebellious, cool instrument.)

She quickly forced herself to drift her thoughts away from her mom. The last thing she wanted was to give the _old hag_ the pleasure of being thought about.

She sat on the edge of the bed and began sketching with that favorite pencil of hers as she let some cartoons play in the background. She loved how the pencil could do soft lines for the base, but then be nice and dark when she pressed down with it for the outlines. There was also how it was her favorite color and, different to so many other mechanical pencils she'd use, by how she'd always managed to get more led to use for it, so it never ran out.

Like any child, she couldn't help but get distracted at the colorful animation on the TV in front of her, but unlike other children, she was all alone in the house with no supervision. When the clock above the TV finally read 5, she put her sketchpad and pencil down beside her and went back downstairs, into the kitchen and got out a pot of leftover spaghetti from the refrigerator, setting it in the sink.

Getting a plate from the dishwasher and a plastic spoon, she put a bunch of sauce-covered noodles on to the plate and heated it up in the microwave for three minutes, staying at it's side until she heard the alarm go off on the timer. After taking the plate out and grabbing a fork for it, she opened the fridge again and got out a piece of garlic bread from a Ziploc bag, entering a minute into the microwave. Only letting it go off for 15 seconds however, she pulled it out early and set it on to her plate, shutting the machine's door and bringing the plate upstairs with her.

She was very careful when it came to keeping sauce off of the furniture and papers. She always was when it came to eating in her room. Since her father was rarely home, due to working for a big company a bit out-of-town and worked very early (and late) hours, she learned to do a lot of house and self-management on her own.

In a way, she'd even take care of her father, since she'd always make his breakfast the night before and leave it in the fridge for him to heat up and eat while she was asleep. She'd even do the same with dinner sometimes if he left a note on the counter for what he wanted, but most of the time he could just make it himself whenever he came home or go out to a restaurant.

When she finished her meal, she went back downstairs and washed the plate, putting the pot back in the fridge to eat another day. Going back upstairs, she began outlining the picture she had been working on with her special pen. While yes, it was your regular, black pen on the outside, it seemingly never ran out of ink, so she always liked using it whenever she did want to make her drawings more '_professional_'. Then, she got out some colored pencils and began filling the beloved character of her own creation inside the lines with black, grey, yellow, and caramel. She even gave a dark background for it.

Once it was all done though, she got a thumbtack from a small container on one of her shelves and hung it up on the board with a bunch of other drawings, also outlined with ink, colored and placed upon it. It was about 7 when it was all over, so she thought it was good to take a shower and get ready for bed. So she turned off the TV and put her stuff up in preparation. Once she opened the bathroom door, she couldn't help but hear a faint noise from behind her.

"I'm starting to lose it," she mumbled to herself in disbelief as she turned to see nothing that could have been the source. She simply shut the door behind her. She couldn't help but see her reflection in the mirror, however. Her steely greyish-green eyes always seem to catch people off-guard, but she always thought it went well with her pale complexion and hair.

Her current clothes were simple, as they always were; a dark teal-hoodie, light blue jeans and green sneakers. She never enjoyed dressing up fancily, no matter the occasion. She only even owned a few dresses, and she never even wore them unless she had to. She simply shook the thought aside quickly though. She needed rest if she was going to do well in school tomorrow, and to get rest, she needed to prepare for said rest.

* * *

She just came out of the bathroom with a light pink hair wrap to dry her soaking wet hair, and a blue sweatshirt with a matching set of sweatpants she'd prepared in the bathroom as pajama's that morning. She glanced over at the board, and saw the drawing she'd made earlier that day was now just a blank piece of paper... as if it were never even there- no, that wasn't right. It was as if the character just _came off the paper_.

Of course it confused her. Where had the picture gone? Why was it blank? This had to be a joke. She knew that for a fact. But who would have been the prankster?

She was the only one even in the house, and her father would still be at work. It couldn't have been her mother or step-brother either. She didn't even live in the same town as her, and he lived with the woman (for reasons she couldn't fathom.) Abigail knew her mother would even bother driving down here to pick her up every few weeks or holiday if she could avoid it, so she doubted she would come down here for some random visit.

She didn't even know anyone else in town, and if she did, she wouldn't even give them any access to suddenly come into her house while she was in the shower.

'_So __who did it_?' she thought to herself.

She shook her head, hoping deep down that her father just got home earlier than usual and was trying to scare or surprise (more likely surprise) her as she approached the bedroom door. Or maybe she was just being paranoid and overreacting. Yeah, that was probably it.

That's when she heard footsteps going up the stairs.

There was someone, possibly a stranger, or thief, or murderer, _in her house_.

She quickly backed up, trying to keep her breathing as quiet as possible as she opened her closet and got her only thing even remotely sports-related; a tennis racket. Her mother was once in a bit of a tennis phase, so she had gotten Abigail one of her own to use when she taught her. It passed quickly though, so it just ended up rotting in her closet, unused and gaining dust. But one use that did remain? It'd make a handy self-defense weapon.

She slowly approached the door, noticing immediately that all noise had ceased in the household. It was like the world had gone still, or the entire house was holding its breath. It was either she compared it to that, or how the music would go silent before a jump scare or murder in a horror movie. It was needless to say she didn't like the latter option.

Then she heard a faint tap at the door- meaning the intruder was_ right outside her room_.

She flung the door open quickly, meaning to knock the person back and stun them. Just before she could swing the racket like a baseball bat, she stopped out of shock.

_They didn't have a head_.


	3. Batim

**Abigail** just dropped the racket entirely. Fear toke over her entire body, causing her to practically be paralyzed. She'd heard about the new discovery when it came to the fight or flight response people had; some people ended up freezing up. It was like a deer would just stare at a car's oncoming headlights instead of running away and avoiding getting run over. _This must be what that felt like_, she thought.

She snapped out of it quickly though, when she heard the agony and pain in the person's... no,_ thing's _voice.

"Owwwwww!" she heard it complain, its black, clawed hands feeling around for the neck that wasn't even there- like it had it knocked off. "Don't you know how much that hurts?!" it then asked. Its voice almost sounded like Spinel's from that Steven Universe movie, but with a very faint roughness to it.

The voice sounded a bit further than the body, however. That's when the body itself seemed to turn around, despite the lack of head, and therefore the brain, reaching down to pick up something. _The head_, she realized with a bit of disgust.

When she saw the head though, her face changed from that of distaste to awe. It had long, black, messy, inky hair that dripped faintly into the carpet, yet it left no stain on the floor. The skin of the face, and the rest of the body for that matter, was a bit lighter, forming a shade of dark grey. There was a fake yellow halo a bit to the right of the head, tied up there with some string that would have normally connected to weird objects that always resembled the end of a hockey-stick from its.. no, _her_ back, just like the string that would have normally connected the faint remnant of a neck (that was connected to the head) to the chest. The figure had one large, right eye stitched in with a brown iris, but a smaller yellow eye sat to the left with a large, black X over it. She seemed to give a gentle smile towards her, showing a bit of her '_skin_' dripped over her mouth as a strip.

"You finally recognize me, dont'cha?" she then asked. Abigail_ did _recognize her, she realized. She looked over the caramel-covered overalls, with only one strap on her left shoulder, going downwards at an angle. She had the tips of a very-pale caramel brown rib cage coming out of her chest and other mouths near the top of her arms, stuck in permanent, wide smiles. The overall's leg stretched down over the legs, but it appeared as if it had been torn away halfway down the right leg, revealing a talon-like foot. The left leg of the overall completely covered the matching leg, hiding its taloned foot, but a black substance, _ink_, had soaked through the bottom, revealing the liquid in the process.

_Of course_ she recognized her. She _made_ her. She had drawn her just that day... _on the very same paper that was blank earlier_, she remembered. And yet, there she was, right in front of her. She wasn't even frightened by her... she was just amazed she was here, right now.

At long last, Abigail finally nodded her head and said "Yeah, of course I do... Batim," with a playful smirk on her face, which seemed to cause Batim's to grow a bit wider out of fondness. Of course she remembered the name well. The name itself for the character had, at first, only been a temporary nickname from the game she based her design (and even personality and story) off of, but she had grown attached to it. As a result, she kept it. But the last thing she had ever expected was for her to be _alive,_ let alone in her house.

* * *

"So your my creator, Abby?" Batim asked her after Abigail introduced herself. They had sat down on the edge of the bed so they could both be comfortable while they talked about the situation at hand. For the first time she'd ever even seen her (even considering the fact she just found out she's alive), she looked pretty serious. After all, she'd never drawn her with any form of sad or upset expression. It was always a crazy grin. Still, she nodded in response.

Seeing her own character, with all its details now full-on features in real life made her wish she didn't make Batim as terrifying in design as she did. She'd gotten accustomed to it after a few minutes, but she still hadn't fully adapted to the concept of her own creation being in the same room as her, talking to her.

"...How?" Abigail finally found herself asking them, unable to speak the other questions she found forming non-stop in her head.

Batim lifted their head over where her neck would normally attach to her body. She let the thin, black strings that connected off of the bit of neck coming off her head stretch and reconnect with the chest. It gave her head almost the effect that it was floating a bit since it wasn't drooping or falling off like it would if it obeyed the laws of physics, and the strings were the only thing keeping the neck attached. Yet it helped the head still stay up like the strings worked just as well as the actual body part meant to be in its place.

"I'm just as clueless as you are, toots. One second I'm on a piece of paper, the next-" the inky woman said with a shrug, then making a simple '_poof_' gesture with her hands "-I found myself able to come off and walk around, just like that." She couldn't help but notice Batim looked over her shoulder towards the drawings on the wall and then at her palms- as if she were comparing them to herself.

"So... why were you walking around my house?" the girl then asked, having felt inclined.

Batim simply blew a raspberry and said "I was exploring the place, obviously. Wouldn't anyone if they suddenly found themselves able to move in a place they don't know?"

When Abigail thought about it, it made sense. Babies would always try to experiment and mess with their surroundings when they learn to walk, but they would certainly be exploring the house. Then she realized she was practically comparing Batim to an infant and mentally scolded herself. While yes, one could say she was sort of just '_born_', the character herself would about... at most 85, considering the game she based her off of had all its characters be made (in the game) around the 1930s.

"Uh... sorry about hitting you with the door... and for almost hitting you with the tennis racket," Abigail said sincerely, rubbing her arm a little out of shame. She meant it two. If she had known it was Batim the entire time, she knows things would have played out very differently.

"Its fineee. I've faced worse!" Batim proudly stated, putting a fist up against her chest. It sounded like a weird thing to be proud of, but if she meant that she faced worse and got through it, then it worked out quite nicely. At least, that's how Abigail interpreted it.

"...So.. do you want anything to eat, drink, or...?" Abigail then asked out of obligation.

A mischievous smile seemed to form on Batim's face. "Maybe some air would be nice." If the ink woman had any plans up her sleeve, which judging by her face she likely did, she had no clue on what it could be. That, and anything Batim had in mind for _her_ in particular probably wouldn't be malicious. So, she decided, it would be the smart move to go along with it. Her face softened a little from its slightly confused gaze, as she nodded her head.

"Let's go, then!" the inky creature soon stretched out her arms, wrapping them around her into a hug, but Abigail was facing outwards and was resting over her chest.

"Uhhhh, what-" Abigail managed to say just as she was grabbed. One of her arms soon let go while the other kept her steady as the 6-foot tall woman steady against her chest. She opened up the window and jumped out of it, still gripping onto the 14-year-old tightly so she didn't fall. Her free arm seemed to expand and stretch, allowing her to swing from lampposts and anything else she could use to keep herself off the ground, like Spiderman or Globby.

* * *

It was enchanting to see the clear night atmosphere with its moon and stars illuminating the dark navy blue sky. Even though it was within a living character's arms, it was still magical to breathe in the chilly, yet satisfying air and feel the breeze against her face. Not even Batim's occasional '_WHOOOOOO_' and _'AWWWW YEAHH'_ bothered her.

Eventually, they landed on some person's house. She couldn't tell who it belonged to though, due to how dark it was outside. She couldn't even make out any significant features with the full moon unconcealed. The lampposts across the street gave off a soft, yellow glow, but the darkness still engulfed the house, making it impossible to reveal the owner's identity.

It was like a constant war between the light and dark, with every night being a battle, with the shadows winning this particular brawl. However, it didn't give off any feeling of somberness. If anything, it made the radiance and beauty from the sources of illumination stand out more.

Batim soon let go, just letting her rest at her side as they both sat down on the edge of the cold roof. For a split second, she could have sworn she saw a shooting star cut through the navy blue yonder up above. Abigail immediately put her hands together and closed her eyes, making it look as if she was praying, when in reality she was making a wish.

When she opened her eyes again, she quickly noticed Batim staring at her in confusion. "What are you doing?" The drawing brought to life then asked. Her legs were swaying back and forth in a childish manner as her hands gripped the edge of the roof.

"I'm making a wish." Abigail stated, then added "You uh, do it for certain stuff, like when you see a shooting star, or snap a wishbone.. that kind of stuff. People believe that when you do certain things and then make a wish, it'll come true."

"I know that." Batim huffed. "I've just never seen anyone put their hands together for one before."

"You've only been alive for... what, a few minutes? How could you have seen _anyone_ make a wish before?"

"Well- I just have!" the ink woman claimed.

"...How?" she repeated, with a bit more of a stern tone.

"...I... I don't know." she admitted, visibly losing a bit of her iconic joy.

"I- I remember a lot of things from my past. I can remember seeing someone do it, just not like that..." Batim almost seemed to contemplate something, looking down towards the ground below them as she did.

"...Is any of that _real_ though?" she asked, looking over at Abigail with a specific look in her eye, like she was silently begging for it to be part of this reality- as if she were begging for her past and all of her experiences to have actually happened to her, and to not have just been fabrications. '_All of those memories she has must be from the stories I gave her..._' she realized.

"...Of course!" Abigail said, and she was honest about it. If anything, she was more honest about that then anything she's ever said to someone. Those stories were a part of her. Those memories were just as real as she was. At least, that's how she saw it. She began to feel warmth inside when she saw Batim give such a soft, genuine smile of affection.

"So what did you wish for?" Batim then asked, clearly satisfied as she changed the topic.

"I can't tell you that! It wont come true if I told anyone, as I'm sure you know."

Batim continued to press on with her gaze, but Abigail kept firm. Stubbornness came in handy sometimes. It helped her get her way once in a while, like now. But it also got her into a lot of arguments with friends... the few people she considered friends, anyway. She almost feared her relentlessness would cause the two to get into a dispute.

But to Abigail's surprise, Batim relented with a wide smile on her face and nodded before saying "I guess anyone would want their wish to come true, eh?" That question just ended their conversation on wishes entirely, as they begun to watch the stars twinkle.

"...Hey, Batim?"

"Yeah?" The ink woman asked back, not even turning her head away from the sky above them.

"Do you know what time it is?" Abigail knew it was probably pointless to ask. She knew neither of them had a watch on them, and it's not like they could rely on the moon's placement. Like Abigail predicted, Batim just shook her head.

"Not a clue," she replied, shaking her head. "Maybe we can try to ask the owner of the house?" Batim calmly suggested, as if it wouldn't be strange for a giant woman composed of ink and a 14-year-old to knock on the door and ask for the time in the middle of the night. Abigail could only imagine how that scenario to turn out.

'_Excuse me sir and/or madam, do you mind telling me and my 6 foot tall, inky friend here what time it is?' _The possible reaction and terrified expression on their face alone practically urged her to go along with it though, but her moral compass was telling her it would be wrong. Then again, Batim was essentially a newborn child, with quite a bit of innocence and naivity...

"Sure, why not?" Abigail simply replied, deciding she didn't want to destroy any of Batim's blissful ignorance. Batim soon stretched her arms around her just like before, only this time her free hand latching on to the edge as she flung herself off the roof, slowly lowering herself. It was almost as if she were a spy and was relying on a grappling hook to slowly make her way into the villain's secret lair.

Once they reached the top window facing out to the lawn, she patted Batim's arm. On cue, she paused. Abigail looked through the window to see what looked like someone's study, with a desk, a bunch of odd objects, and a giant bookshelf filled with what looked like burnt books.

She knew the occupant would probably freak out if they saw the two, but it wasn't as if she could get in on her own. She still couldn't see anyone inside, so she knocked a few more times. She assumed they might be downstairs, but she didn't want to go as far as to commit breaking and entering just to get the time.

Unfortunately, Batim had other ideas. She stretched out the hand holding her further, so it wrapped around the two of them and still held 14-year-old, but could also open the window.

She couldn't help but notice that Batim's hair seemed to shrink while her arms stretched, which made sense when she gave it enough thought. Powers had rules for themselves- ways they function with logic and reason. It seemed that, for Batim, her limit is the very ink that's composing her. Specifically, how she only had so much of it. Stretching out her limbs like cartoon characters used to back in the days of rubber hose animation would probably mean that she would have to give up a bit of ink from other parts of her body. It was like how Abigail could run fast, but had low stamina. Both had to have something to counteract each other since neither could have limitless power.

It was only until _after_ Batim flung herself, and therefore the both of them, through the window did Abigail remember that it was the weekend- the time of the week that she could stay up as long as she wanted, and therefore didn't even need the time. But as long as they were in there, they may as well continue on their quest to find it.

Once Batim let her go and her arm (and hair) returned to normal, the ink woman began exploring around the room, shaking a snowglobe that happened to be on the desk with intrigue. She then moved on and began messing around with other knick-knacks and strange artifacts around the room, which would have normally given an eerie and downright creep vibe to it. It probably would have even been enough to cause her hand to stand on its ends if it wasn't for Batim bring a bit of comic relief into the room with how she practically played with it all, like a youthful child trying to figure out what everything was.

Abigail, on the other hand felt drawn to the bookshelf. The books were relatively thin, but she could tell they had once been pretty well-kept before something had burnt them up. But what had caused them to be in that condition? And why would someone even keep them if they were in such bad shape?

One book managed to catch her attention, right in the middle of the shelf. It was the only one that wasn't damaged. In fact, it looked like it was brand new. She pulled it out, pure curiosity influencing her to do so. She looked at the tile of the brown book, which only read the word _Goosebumps _on it, with a black spine and corners. But the thing that stuck out to her the most was the lock on it.

'_Who would lock a book?_' she thought to herself. Then she remembered the name _Goosebumps_... and the name of the author inscribed at the bottom of the cover. Come to think of it, it looked more like a journal of some kind... or manuscript than a regular book. If she was right, then this wasn't just some random house she entered without permission.

It was her English teacher's house,_ R.L Stine's_.


	4. Freedom

**She** had to force herself to take a few deep breaths so she didn't start going into that shock-like state she went into what could barely now even be recognized as, possibly, half an hour (or less) ago. Despite this, she still just stared at the manuscript in her hands. She was in her teacher's _house_. _Without permission_. Heck, he probably didn't even have a clue as to how they here there.

Now she really regretted letting Batim mess with his stuff. She was regretting all of this, really.

When she fully examined the room though, she knew she should have realized this sooner. It almost- actually, she _did_ feel like a moron now. Who else would own this kind of stuff in this dull town? How did she _not_ realize this before now? And she was meant to be _smart_.

That feeling of remorse only got worse when she started hearing something coming from somewhere around the room. It sounded a lot like growling and moaning, but when she glanced around, she didn't see the source. But the noises persisted. They sounded close, but where were they coming from? She even considered a second she was going insane until Batim dropped the shrunken head she was caressing on to the floor. She could hear it two.

It didn't comfort her though. It only meant the noises weren't in her head.

That's when she looked down and realized where the commotion was coming from; the very book she was holding. She reluctantly lifted it up closer to her ear, so she might be able to get a better idea of what was going on in the manuscript. For a little bit, she contemplated on the fact doing this was pointless. It wasn't like she was going to hear anything else but groaning and snarling.

She was genuinely surprised when she did though.

It was just one, raspy voice, but it almost made her... concerned. At least when she just heard animalistic noises, she didn't feel as if there was an actual person trapped in there, but now it sounded like there was one. All she could make out were the words "_Let me out Stine!_" within the other monstrous, gravelly noises.

She was almost entranced by it. She hadn't even realized Batim had knelt in front of her, showing another expression she'd never drawn her with; concern- just like she was feeling. But for some reason, she felt like it was concern for both her _and_ the origin of the voice.

* * *

Batim hadn't had any clue why Abigail was grasping that novel like it frightened her. Why would anyone be frightened by a dusty old book? Then again, she couldn't understand how humans could be scared of any of the stuff in this room. If anything, the shrunken head in her hands just looked ridiculous.

But the noises from that book would have made her hairs stand up straight (What do people call it? Goosebumps?) if she had any. She didn't even realize that she dropped the artifact onto the floor. Instantaneously, her mind had gone back to all those years of being locked up and left behind in that studio. She didn't know why that popped into her head. She guessed that, in a way, she empathized with the lifeforms she heard within the pages of that book. They probably knew what it was like to be abandoned, just like her.

She didn't even know if those memories were even real now that _she _was real, but she still hoped Abigail, (or as she liked to call her, Abby or Abs), was right when she said they were. She desperately wanted them to be. It let her know that everything she went through wasn't fake- that it wasn't all a rouse. It helped make her feel as if she was just as real as everyone else. Her being made of ink didn't change that, and one of the last things she wanted was for it too.

"Hey, Abs, you alright?" she had asked the 14-year-old when she approached and knelt in front of her, who had still seemed a bit shook up when she lowered the book from her ear. She had to snap her fingers two times just to get her to snap out of it and look at her. (hah, pun!)

Abigail had nodded her head in response before replying "Yeah, I'm fine- I just..." She'd never continued her sentence, as she began to look back down to the cover of the manuscript again, clearly perplexed on the ongoing situation. She looked as if she had no real idea of what was happening.

That's when she noticed the lock on the book cover and the key on the desk. She'd seen some peculiar things in her time, or she hoped she did, but a lock on a book with people inside of it was pretty high up that list.

She stretched out her arm over to the desk, plucking the key off the writing station (that's what she assumed it was anyway) and shrunk her arm back to its normal length. She looked up at Abigail, who stared back at her, allowing a silent conversation to form. That's how close their bond was, even though Batim was only walking and talking for (what was likely) 3/4ths of an hour. And she was proud of that.

After what seemed like a few minutes, Abigail nodded her head. She must have known how important this was to her, and how those living beings deserved to be free like she was. After all- she made her.

"Let's do this." Abigail quietly stated, kneeling down on to the floor fully as she rested the book in front of her. Batim could feel herself beaming up with joy as she bent down a bit further, so she was a bit more at eye-level with her creator. She knew there wasn't any going back with this, and she was perfectly okay with that.

* * *

Abigail had no clue what she was doing, or why she thought it was a good idea. All she knew was that it seemed important to Batim. When she considered the story she wrote her with, she must be relating to how... whatever was in the book was feeling. So, she went along with it. She wouldn't have been able to handle seeing Batim's energy and optimism die.

She felt like she was being watched, even though Batim was looking at the book in anticipation. Then she realized something. If she could hear the beings in there, they may be able to hear her... maybe even see her, two.

She knew it was probably stupid, but she felt obligated to tell them _something_ if they could hear everything they were saying. They at least needed to know they were about to be released. She carefully set the book down on the floor, sitting down in front of it, with Batim kneeling down on the other side.

"Ok... uh... we're going to let you out now- so... yeah." Abigail managed to stutter out, feeling utterly ridiculous while she did it. Batim seemed to nod in approval though. However, the things in the book seemed to get furious at this, as they began to scream, growl and moan much louder. She could even hear the only human-sounding voice among the crowd shouting louder as well. Then it degraded into what resembled arguing amongst them... like they were fighting over who got to come out and who didn't. But why would they be fighting at all?

"Ok- ok- uh, calm down- please-" she pleaded, but it didn't seem to have any positive affect. If anything, it began to increase in volume. That is, until Batim slammed her fist onto the book cover, causing everything inside of it to grow silent.

"Listen up, and listen well. We're going to let only ONE of you out for the time being. Then, when the time's right, we'll let you ALL out. No fighting about it either. If I hear a peep out of any of you in there, I will throw this book out that window and find a lake you fling you into. Got it?" Batim demanded.

She had such a strong sense of superiority and harshness in her tone. Even Abigail believed she would go along with her threat. Batim was designed to often be chaotic, energetic, and outright cartoony, but she had almost forgetten she also had a temper that could activate and go off the rails with certain cues and a lot of emotional, built-up sorrow. When it came down to it, Batim could be really good at laying down the law.

Abigail let out a breath she hadn't realized she held, then nodding towards Batim. The ink woman had soon inserted the key into the lock and turned, pulling it out, keeping it in her hand for later use.

They both had paused for a few seconds. They were expecting the cover to suddenly fly open on its own. It was actually pretty anti-climactic that it didn't. At least, that's how it felt to her.

Figuring she didn't have any other option, she slowly began to pull the book open. A pale blue light seemed to come from the pages of the manuscript, despite the lack of any logical source. Out of seemingly nowhere, a lot of things occur at once. What appeared to be the claws of zombies and a werewolf, vines of venus fly traps, the bandaged hands of some mummy, and even some weird pink, gelatinous blob could be seen squeezing their way out of the pages. They were all trying to squeeze their way out of the partially opened book, clearly impatient with each other in their attempts to be the one to come out first.

One hand in particular caught her attention- it looked relatively human, but kind of small- like a child's. '_Oh god, is that a kid in there!?_' was the first thought that crossed her mind. She swayed away from the idea when she realized it was hitting the other creatures, trying to force them back into the book so he can get out first. It made her feel a little bad for the other creeps and crawls within the manuscript. They must have been in there for a long time if they were all so desperate to escape.

'_Why would Stine make anyone suffer through this? I thought he was a good person..._'

She didn't want to see them all go through such agony anymore. She stuck her hand within the madness. Batim was just trying to keep the book from opening up fully by using her bodyweight to push the cover down a bit, but she eased up slightly to accommodate for her. Abigail just shut her eyes tightly and attempted to grab a random hand, letting it be a choice of chance.

She could feel the touch of cold bandages, relatively soft yet wild fur, slimy... slime and vaguely fuzzy vines go against her skin, but none of the owners of said features seemed to get a decent hold on her. It was like something was holding them all back.

Eventually, she felt a hand that seemed to be composed of wood grip tightly on to her wrist with what she could only describe as super strength.

She tugged back with all her might as she heard the book be slammed shut and the lock click, permanently sealing the others in again until unlocked once more. She could also hear something slam into the bookshelf with a bit of force when that grip was released from her wrist. She could even recognize a slight groan of pain escape from that direction.

However, she couldn't hear any of the burnt books fall to the floor, so that was good. It was also good that she couldn't hear her English teacher come to the stairs. Stine could come up any minute after hearing any of the noises up here, but it meant there might be fewer sounds to attract his attention... if they didn't already catch it.

She finally opened her eyes to see Batim staring down at the book, then picking it up and putting it against her chest. She could see her put a bit of pressure against it and the book begin to sink into her chest until it enveloped it entirely. She'd almost forgotten she gave Batim the ability to store some things inside of her and then pull them out whenever she needed them. She just hoped the inky abyss the manuscript was now in didn't affect it or anyone inside.

She soon took notice of a small figure pushing themself off the cold, hard wooden floor. She couldn't believe what she was seeing.

He was only about three feet tall. At least, that's what she guessed. She didn't have a tape measurer on her. What she _could_ make out was that he wore a grey suit and matching pants, with a red collared bowtie and fake carnation. He even had a white, collared shirt underneath and dark brown dress shoes. He looked like quite a gentlemen, with a swoop of brown hair and chocolate-brown eyes that reminded her a lot of her the _Goosebumps_ author. He may have passed for some small, fancily dressed kid if it wasn't for the fact he was made of wood, as revealed by how he had two chips in its '_skin_'; one on his nose and the other on his chin.

She just watched with suspicion as what could be clearly identified as a ventriloquist dummy dusted itself off a bit. He seemed to shoot her a look for a quick second- as if he were actually upset she had pulled him out. Well, he was probably just mad that he got thrown into the bookshelf. After all, if he didn't want to be freed, then he didn't have to grab onto her at all.

She saw him glance over at Batim. She couldn't help but notice how his eyes slightly widened at the sight of her. It was more likely out of surprise than fear, though. Why would a living doll be scared of another supernatural entity?

He seemed to look back and forth at the two in confusion... like he couldn't believe what he was seeing. It hadn't taken long for the eyebrows to lower though, giving him an expression of anger.

"Who the heck are you two?" he seemed to rasp, his jaw going up and down with each word he spoke. He almost behaved as if he wasn't expecting these two to have let him out. He even looked as if he was upset about that.

'_Maybe he thought it was Stine reaching his hand in to pull him out?'_, she thought to herself.

"Well, you're welcome." Batim quickly retorted, her arms crossed in a bit of a huff. Abigail just reached over and put a hand on her shoulder, causing the ink woman to sigh in defeat and let her hands rest in her lap. That didn't mean she wasn't still glaring at him though.

"My name's Abigail, and this is Batim..." she then said, insinuating over to Batim when her name was spoken.

"What's yours?" she had found herself asking them, only to get one of the strangest responses in the history of plausible answers.

"Slappy." He'd spoken it with a bit of suspicion, likely because he didn't fully trust the duo yet.

That's when she recognized him. He was Slappy the dummy- the most well-known villain in the _Goosebumps_ franchise. She felt herself flinch a bit at the name when she realized it. To think, it had been hours before her life was following its everyday course. Now she was having to deal with being the star of the strangest life anyone could ever have.

Of course, life had to be a jerk and throw _another_ curveball her way. Because _that's_ when she started hearing noises from downstairs.


End file.
